The snail’s love dart is such an apt apparatus for evoking the weight this stone-island’s “accumulation of wastings,” along with the time-dilated ardor with which it regards (as if, despite itself) its simultaneous isolation from and relationship to everything within its gravitational sphere. Who’s to say whether such allohormone infusions constitute our purest interfaces with reality, or our most misguided delusions thereof? Hmm…

I’ve seen photos of misplaced love darts, and all I can say is OUCH! I suppose one must “have a mind of snail” or some such to appreciate (or survive) such ardor. I suppose the answer lies somewhere between purity and delusion, but I’m leaning towards delusion. 🙂